


Give and Take

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Come play, Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, M/M, not series two compatible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 08:58:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They didn't know who liked what, and they didn't ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give and Take

**Author's Note:**

> Not betaed or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine. See a typo? Pop it in a comment so I can fix it. :)
> 
> Come play, if you squint.

“John?” Sherlock purred.

John had to suppress a groan. He just got home—just, as in five minutes ago—from the surgery. On his feet all day giving flu jabs, and now all he wanted to do was sit on the couch and watch some mindless telly. He really didn’t want to indulge whatever mad whim Sherlock was on now.

“Sherlock,” he sighed, prying his eyes open and looking up at the other man. The sight that met him had John’s lips curling into a smile, all protest forgotten.

Standing right next to the couch, Sherlock was naked but for his dressing gown, which was untied and hanging loosely off one shoulder. One long fingered hand was closed around a small tube of lubricant. Even if he hadn’t seen that, John knew what this was about, and it made him love the mad detective even more. But usually confident eyes suddenly looked unsure and John hated himself for that. Sherlock knew John had a bad day and he wanted to make it better, John was just being stupid and not waiting for the offer that would relax them both.

Anger completely gone, John reached an arm out to Sherlock. “Come here,” he smiled.

Sherlock’s smile returned. With a roll of his shoulders, his dressing gown fell to the floor, leaving him bare. They didn’t need any more preamble than that, and Sherlock wasted no time in laying himself across John’s legs and stretching out. Like a cat, Sherlock stretched in John’s lap, exposing his chest, stomach, and just-stirring cock.

Neither was really sure how or when this started, only that they both enjoyed it. They didn’t know who liked what: if Sherlock liked the feeling of John’s soft jumpers and worn jeans rubbing against his bare skin, or if John liked feeling Sherlock’s incredible body heat through layers of fabric. They didn’t know and they didn’t ask.

Part of it had to do with their preferences in bed, and in life, John supposed. John was a giver. No matter what his own body wanted, he gave to his lover. Whatever they asked for, whenever they asked for it. In Sherlock’s case, most times, John gave what was _needed_. Sherlock was a taker. Greedy hands and lips took whatever his partner (John, always John, never anyone else) offered him and asked for more like he needed it. He probably did. After so many years of denying himself, Sherlock probably needed all the intimacy he could get.

But giver or taker, they weren’t stupid. Sherlock made sure John never gave to the point of denying his own needs indefinitely, and John made sure Sherlock never took more than he could handle. It was a nearly perfect system that left them both happy and sated, and this was just a small part of it.

Stretched out across his lap, Sherlock extended his arms and legs far out in both directions, offering his naked body to John. Never one to ignore the offer, John started slowly stroking Sherlock’s chest. Tracing his ribs, counting them with experienced fingers, and over to gently stroke up and down his sternum. A low rumble emitted from Sherlock’s chest as John touched him, vibrating the skin under his fingers.

Another moment or two of touching and John leaned down to press his lips to Sherlock’s skin. All that gorgeous skin, creamy smooth, covering every long, beautiful inch of the younger man. John could never get enough of it. Sometimes, he thought that Sherlock’s body had somehow absorbed all the drugs he’d taken and transformed them into new skin cells, because touching him was practically addictive. John knew it was impossible (maybe it could happen in some science fiction movie, but not in reality) but Sherlock’s skin remained one of John’s addictions. Danger and touching Sherlock. That’s what John was hooked on. And since the danger was provided by Sherlock, why not just skip the middle step and claim to be addicted to the man himself? That seemed right to John. Absolutely right.

In John’s lap, Sherlock moaned softly, leaning into the light touches and warm kisses, wanting more but at the same time not. This wasn’t about him tonight. It was about John and what he needed.

The instant he walked in, Sherlock knew that John was wound tighter than a Swiss watch. The day had left its mark all over him, but only Sherlock could see it. The tight hunch of shoulders that had been so tight all day, now they physically couldn’t relax. He’d probably planned to go to bed like that, and would wake sore and irritated. And John would have to get up and do it all again the next day. Flu season was murder on his doctor and blogger, and Sherlock would do whatever he could to make it better.

It may seem like Sherlock was getting all the pleasure out of this deal, but really, John was getting his equal share. They’d mastered a fine balance in their time together. John got pleasure from giving pleasure. For John, seeing the look on Sherlock’s face when he came was almost better than the orgasm itself. And Sherlock knew this, so he made sure to give John as much pleasure as he could, by taking what was offered.

And right now, what were on offer were John’s strong, capable hands and lips all over his skin. How could Sherlock resist?

Too soon, it wasn’t enough. “John?” Sherlock asked.

John was already moving. One hand traveled up Sherlock’s arm to pluck the bottle of lube from him. Still using the one hand, John flipped open the cap and squirted a bit onto his fingers before dropping the bottle onto the coffee table. Even Sherlock—who was dexterous as hell—couldn’t figure out how John did that. A doctor’s hands, for certain, but how could they be so steady while all the chemicals and hormones in his body were driving everything mad? John could never give an answer that satisfied Sherlock, all he would say is “practice.” Whatever that meant. To Sherlock’s knowledge, this was John’s first homosexual relationship, so he’d never need—

“God!” Sherlock moaned out, his chest jerking up. Two of John’s slick fingers started gently massaging his perineum. Moving slowly up and down in a maddening way that Sherlock never wanted to stop. Finally, the fingers made it up to his hole and continued the massage. Gently working Sherlock’s sphincter until the muscle loosened enough for John to press inside. Once he was there, it really didn’t take long for the doctor’s fingers to find Sherlock’s prostate and give it a good feel.

Sherlock’s chest jerked again. “John!” He gasped. “Please!”

Really, he should’ve worked up to the main event, but John just couldn’t resist. After a day full of people wincing when he touched them, he wanted one person to love it. That one person would always be Sherlock.

Sherlock was trying—really, _really_ trying—to stay stretched out so that John could have as much of his body as he wanted, but as soon as those teasing fingers pressed inside, he couldn’t control himself anymore. His chest jerked like John had it on a string, and finally, any semblance of self control gone, Sherlock leaned up to wrap his arms around John’s neck. “John,” he panted in the man’s ear as he continued finger-fucking him, grazing his prostate on every third thrust. “Please,” he whispered. “Please.”

“Mmm,” John hummed. His arm came around to support Sherlock’s back, effectively pulling him closer. “Yes,” he nodded. “Go ahead.”

It wasn’t permission that had Sherlock dropping his hand into his lap and stroking himself to completion, it was courtesy. Sherlock could come whenever he wanted (and right now, he wanted) but first, he needed to know: had John had his fill? Was the older man thoroughly sated and relaxed, completely unwound from his hellish day? With that answer of yes, there was nothing to hold Sherlock back from giving John what else he wanted.

A few sharp jerks were all it took. With John’s fingers still buried inside of him, Sherlock’s orgasm had the potential to be a hell of a ride, and it didn’t disappoint. His entire body tensed as it finally let go.

Ropes of sticky fluid pulsed out over Sherlock’s hand as he kept stroking, trying to get every last drop. His body contracted hard around John’s fingers still inside of him, which made John grin like a fool. To watch his normally so put together lover in a state like this—completely lost under John’s hands and reverent touches. In his opinion, there was nothing more beautiful.

When everything stopped, Sherlock slumped back into John’s lap like a rag doll. John gently pulled his fingers from Sherlock’s body and brought his hand up to swirl through the little pool of come gathered in his belly button. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock whispered once he’d got his breath back.

A few more minutes went by before Sherlock had himself together again, then John got up to get a wet flannel from the bathroom. He took great care in wiping Sherlock down, making sure to clean away every trace of come, lube and sweat. Sherlock continued to lay in John’s lap while he was pampered; just another part of their give and take. John the doctor needed someone to take care of, so Sherlock would give it to him.

Later, after they’d eaten and finally made it up to bed, Sherlock would see that John was taken care of. Either taking him in hand or in his mouth, he would see John got his final release. He would lick and suck and stroke all his cares away, sending them both off into a dreamless sleep of the completely relaxed. Because sometimes, it was his turn to give and John’s turn to just take.

The End


End file.
